


Into Cool Night (Rescued from Rainy Dawn)

by eponymous_rose



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Canon - TV, Episode Related, Gen, POV Third Person, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 23:49:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eponymous_rose/pseuds/eponymous_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The timelines converge, even now. Donna laughs at the end of the storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into Cool Night (Rescued from Rainy Dawn)

Donna's been noticing the little things lately - everything's normal as can be, and there she is, going around squinting at it all like it's something new, something she's never seen before. She has to stop herself from pulling out her mobile to call Suzie Mayor about a particularly beautiful sunrise, because it's daft, isn't it, getting all worked up over something like that?

Sometimes - usually at traffic intersections, of all places - she thinks a bit about destiny, about being meant to go places and do things because it's what happens, and that's all there is to it, because there's no way around it, not really. She runs into her auntie on holiday in Paris, and they laugh at the improbability of it all, and she can't sleep that night because there's something itching at the back of her head, like a ghost of a touch across her shoulders, like cold ice down her back.

(She wins a hundred quid in some stupid radio contest, naming off pi to fifteen decimal places, and almost manages to convince herself she'd cheated and googled it before answering.)

After a bit of travelling, finding temp jobs here and there as she goes, coming home for a month or two until she and Mum row and go their separate ways again, Donna finds herself talking a lot more about coincidences, about how things always seem to go the same way, and it's that cold-shiver-down-the-spine feeling all over again.

One day, she needs to get to the pharmacy before it closes, and all the traffic lights go green, all at once.

"Don't be daft," says her mum. "They're timing them, reducing traffic congestion in the city, you know. It's not possible they'd all go at the same time."

Donna agrees, and finds herself smiling.

Three weeks later, she's quit her job and moved to China for a year on some dodgy exchange she's heard about from a friend, teaching English and learning everything she can. She guesses part of her paycheck's never making it to her bank account, but it's all right, because it's different here, further away, better.

Gramps calls her every weekend, but they don't say much, not anymore, and she feels a bit like he's disappointed in her, like he's on the verge of tears every time she asks whether he's seen any little green men lately, whether he's been watching the stars. He tells her he's sold his telescope, tells her he's hid it in the attic, tells her he uses it every night, and she's not sure what he's on about, why he's lying to her, but it scares her a bit, and she feels so _cold_ sometimes.

She's walking down a quiet street one morning, after a brief spot of rain, peering up at the bits of sky visible between the trees, laughing when the wind picks up and starts a new flurry of raindrops falling from the leaves all around.

"You know," says a voice beside her, English and a bit Scouse, even, "I think there might be a bit of a rainbow."

She turns, ready to snap at him if he's being sarcastic, but he looks almost painfully earnest, ignoring her in favour of sloshing slowly and deliberately through a puddle, grinning as it soaks the toes of his shoes.

Doesn't hurt that he's a bit nice, really, all curly hair and classical features, and he's not much taller than she is, all in all.

She winces, clutches her head for a moment. He stops, and she feels his attention shift to her like it's something physical, like it's a hand on her shoulder.

"Are you all right?" he says, and she smiles at him, a bit shaky, but it's fading now, just the memory of pain.

"Yeah," she says. "Sorry, migraine. Never used to get them, you know, but they seem to creep up all the time now. Must be the heat."

"I imagine so," he says, and she feels strangely like they're both lying.

It takes her a few moments to realise he's still following her, and then she has a bit of a jolt, because she's actually forgotten he was there at all, and it isn't everyday dishy men stroll right up to her and start up conversations about rainbows, after all.

"Do you know anything about converging timelines?" he says.

"Can't say I do," she says, and feels another itch at the back of her mind, and stops thinking about it.

"Ah," he says. "Because I'm fairly sure the TARDIS locked in on you. Some sort of flaw in the probability matrix, I'm sure."

And then she turns and looks at him, really _looks_ past the hair and the eyes and the shoes, and she sees that he's pale and shivering, that he's got one hand under his ridiculous Edwardian jacket, clutching his side, and that he's smiling in spite of it all.

She means to ask him if he's all right, but what comes out is: "You're a bit mad, aren't you?"

"Oh," he says, "I'm just delaying the inevitable. Everything's going all wrong, you see, and there's only so far I can run before they catch up." He leans in, conspiratorial, and she feels a shiver at his closeness. "Both sides after me now, you know. Could well be the end of the universe."

"Oh," says Donna, at a loss. "Guess I shouldn't worry much about that lottery ticket I bought, then."

He frowns, mock-serious. "I don't expect the odds are much different, all in all."

"Expect not," she says, and they laugh, and she wonders what strange sort of destiny, or fate, or probability or converging whatsits, could possibly make her laugh with this man about Armageddon.

"The thing is," he says, "I'm not at all certain I want to run anymore."

"Good on you," says Donna.

The strange man stops, looks at her, perplexed. "Do you really think so?"

"Stands to reason, doesn't it? You can't run all your life." She snorts. "You'd get tired, for one thing."

"Oh, I'm already that," he says, sounding a bit lost. "Didn't think it was the running that did it."

"You should try yoga," Donna says after a moment, and she's only half joking, because some part of her is screaming that she can't take him seriously, that she _can't_ or she'll lose everything. "Less hard on the knees than running, right? Gets you in touch with your inner something."

"The universe might end if I stop running," he says, so serious that she nearly smiles.

"Might end if you don't," she says. "And that'd be a bit silly, wouldn't it, running away while the universe toppled around you? Might as well do a bit of good while you're at it."

He frowns, and then smiles, and the genuine affection behind it spikes her headache again. She winces, rubbing at her temples.

"You're right," he says, and the blinding intensity of his smile fades. "It's harder this way."

"My Grandad always says you know you're doing the right thing because it's harder." Donna snorts. "Lot of rubbish most of the time-"

"True enough now, though," he says, and smiles at her, but softer, sadder, and she feels a bit like she wants to run as far from him as she can get. "Thank you," he says.

"Yeah, well," she says, and shrugs.

He turns and walks away, and her headache disappears, just like that, like traffic lights all switching over at once.

She keeps walking, trying to remember how the conversation had got started, and eventually she looks up and catches sight of the rainbow. It's still there, fainter now, dying against the bruised sky, but behind it she knows the sun is waiting.

It's going to be a beautiful day.


End file.
